A Thousand Paper Cranes
by SkitsMix
Summary: A Same as it Never Was-based one-shot. "He's not sure where he picked up a fondness for origami..."


This is just a little thousand-word (according to Google docs anyway :|) one-shot, based on the episode "Same as it Never Was" in season three of the 2003 TMNT cartoon series. Because reasons. :D

* * *

He's not sure where he picked up a fondness for origami - maybe from Splinter, patiently teaching his four little charges the art to instill in them creativity, patience and precision - or at least keep them in one place and out of mischief.

Maybe it was later, when he'd scavenge any paper he could find for drawing on - or folding. Paper planes, useful boxes, playful creatures that took the place of actual toys, decorative pieces to brighten their small lair - or the occasional balloon, filled with water, hurled at an unsuspecting brother.

He does, however, remember when it became a _habit_ instead of a _hobby_.

He'd finally woken up, still hurting from a multitude of half-healed injuries - missing his left arm from the elbow down - but _safe_ and cared for and surrounded by family (in his memories, Donnie is always there despite the fact that he'd actually been missing for months - never visible, but still _there_, an almost palpable presence, hovering somewhere just out of sight. Maybe if memory-him had turned fast enough he'd have caught a glimpse).

During his recuperation, when he'd been bed- or couch-bound, and wasn't reading, sleeping, or practicing using the game controllers with his toes, he'd whiled away the time by slowly, carefully folding pieces of paper. It'd been awkward at first, trying to manipulate the paper with only three fingers, but he'd persevered; gradually his attempts had become neater, more precise.

Then someone (April, he guessed) had left him a large stack of neat paper squares, brightly-coloured and perfect for folding. Origami became an outlet, a way for him to focus and relax simultaneously.

And while he knew a wide variety of origami, he often found himself defaulting to paper cranes. There was, after all, that legend (he couldn't remember where he'd heard it) about how folding a thousand paper cranes could grant a wish. How cranes symbolised peace, happiness, healing. So he kept every crane in a bag beneath his bed.

Even after he'd healed and was training harder than ever before so he wouldn't be a burden, a liability, a disadvantage to his family, he still kept up the habit.

When Splinter died, sacrificing himself to save his remaining sons, the habit helped him come to terms with his grief and eventually find peace.

The fights between his remaining brothers got increasingly worse, and his attempts to play peacemaker became more and more ineffective. Origami became a retreat, a way to unwind and work out his frustrations so he could keep up the smiling, optimistic exterior that he believed was expected - was _needed_.

Time passed and things continued to get worse, a slow spiral that they couldn't stop or even slow, and he gradually ran out of smiles. But somehow the bag of cranes survived - battered, crumpled, dirty and a little scorched, but still mostly intact, full of brightness and fond memories. A little like himself, really.

Then things between his brothers finally exploded; Leo left before any of them could do anything they'd all regret. Or so Leo claimed - it felt more like abandonment, and his own failure to somehow keep the remains of his family together.

Free time - and paper - became scarce, as he and Raph helped April form and run the Resistance. But Raph's bitterness at their situation was like a slow poison, gradually wearing away his cheer and optimism. Arguments broke out between them more often, ones where words were wielded like weapons. Not even the old habit of paper cranes helped to calm him down afterwards any more, as much as he tried.

Finally things came to a head; loud, harsh and angry words were no longer enough, and fists were used instead. There was no winner; afterwards, Raph left as well - and it felt like another abandonment, another failure.

So here he is now, the sharp sting of Raph's departure still fresh, painful - and echoed by the older pain of Leo's leaving. He sits on the upper floor of an old, abandoned, derelict building, a tiny fire flickering before him, hidden from view by the partially collapsed walls but still open to the cloudy, smog-filled sky. Beside him is the bag of paper cranes, their bright colours dimmed by the night time darkness and only brought to brief, flickering life whenever he tosses some of them into the hungry flames.

One by one the cranes flare, then crumple, sending wisps of smoke upwards that are lost to the night and smog. Eventually he hears soft, quiet footsteps approaching, footsteps that are, by now, as familiar as his own heartbeat. He glances over as April sits down beside the bag, then returns his gaze to the fire.

"Mike...?" April starts, her voice soft, all her questions in that single word.

He just shakes his head, tosses another handful of cranes into the fire. "I don't need them," he murmurs as he watches the flames devour the birds, turn the brightly-coloured paper into black and white ash. His voice is hoarse and weary, his expression dead. "I don't need any of them any more."

April just nods after a moment, silent - and he pretends to not notice her stealthily rescue a tiny orange crane from the bag just before his hand dips into it again.

Finally the bag is empty, and he tosses it onto the fire as well, but the fire's too small. The bag envelops and smothers it, scattering ash and plunging them both into darkness. Only then does April move beside him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He tenses for a moment - then collapses against her, his walls crumbling. He wraps his one arm around her waist and buries his face against her shoulder, silently crying out his hurt and heartbreak.

...

Afterwards, neither of them ever speak of that night, but April keeps that tiny orange crane - treasures it, keeps it safe - and dreams of a phoenix.


End file.
